


your lips and my gun, heading in the same direction

by UnmaskedTomatoes



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Possible Spoilers, attempted suicide, this is absolute garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnmaskedTomatoes/pseuds/UnmaskedTomatoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shuck-face."</p>
            </blockquote>





	your lips and my gun, heading in the same direction

**Author's Note:**

> this is trash and stupid dumb don't read it

One glance up at the ivy scaling those walls.

Newt knew it was his only opportunity.

His breaking point wasn't only watching George die. It was thinking every single night, as the walls rumbled and moaned while they shifted, changed. It was realizing they have _nothing_ as he sleeps to skip to another day.

He spent an entire night, planning- planning the only way out for him. He could stay out in the maze over night. Obviously? No. Minho would never let him. Never leave him.

Newt didn’t want him to die too.

Didn't want Minho to die because of his own fear and helplessness.

This was his chance. The ledge was visible. High up there, but visible, and as Newt was slowing, Minho had sprinted around a corner.

He started climbing before the other boy could notice he wasn’t following behind him anymore. Finding a grip on the vines wasn’t as easy as he had figured, but he was out of Minho’s reach by the time the dark haired boy had finally turned back and tried to stop him.

He had somehow gotten to the top. Stood up there on the ledge. Stared down at Minho glancing at his watch, nervously looking down the corridors, deciding whether or not to leave Newt- it made him feel at ease. Because it was going to be alright. He knew.

He stood, shakily, and attempted to have a bird’s-eye view of the entire maze. Just in case. It was impossible, of course. It was only a ledge. The walls behind him and around him were a few more feet high.

He looked back down to Minho, who was watching him curiously at that point. From his position, Newt would end up falling on him if he wasn’t careful.

Precariously, the blond inched off to the side, the tips of his shoes peeking over the corner of the ivy-covered cement wall.

Inhaled.

Shut his eyes.

Blocked out the sound of Minho calling to him for the last time.

Jumped.

Fell, and fell, and fell-

  


And woke up.

His body jerked as he gasped for air. His sight was unimaginably blurry; blobs of colors, piecing themselves together before him. The ringing in his ears made him dizzy; a splitting headache drilled into his brain.

His first instinct was to move before he fully recalled what had happened before all this. 

He was dying.

_dying dying dying_

But he was awake. Alive. In pain.

There were hands on him. Lifting him, jostling him. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt it hurt. He couldn’t feel his fingers, his toes, they were all numb.

His leg-

He heard himself scream. It felt like his leg was being torn off, threads of his skin ripping further and further every second, with every bump and nudge.

He tried twisting his numb fingers into fists against whatever was on his palm. Tried curling himself up, but just the thought of moving any further was exhausting.

He could hear himself whimpering through the ringing of his headache. He couldn’t force himself to stop, as much as he wanted to. He had no control. His vision was steadily returning. Green. Green and blue, and purple- the sky.

And then brown. Red. The jostling stopped, but his pain didn’t. He wanted to look down and see his leg ripped off, bleeding out. He couldn’t. Physically couldn’t.

Voices. Recognizable, but the faces didn’t come to him. Not yet.

The warmth left him and whatever he was gripping was ripped out of his fingers. He missed it. And the cold, hardness of whatever he was lying on made him shake worse than he had realized.

He blinked. Tried to find his leg. He could barely make out the shape of one. But it wasn’t the ruined one.

He was forced on his back. Everything was becoming clear, and he could understand. Panic, hands. Fingers on his face, trickles of wetness all along his cheeks, somewhere else. Sticky and warm.

Blinked it all away again. And again, and again, and he could see. Him- Alby. Alby was the last person he wanted to see.

He managed an arm up, felt something connect. A choking noise, but Alby was gone.

Sitting up only earned him hands pressing his chest back down, earned him fingers grasping his wrists when he tried to fight off a med-jack.

But it was all gone. One blink and everything had stopped. The blurriness, the wet on his cheeks. The stickiness making his hair cling to his face, making his clothes stick uncomfortably on his skin. The hands, the touches, the shouts. But not the pain.

It’s what he had wanted to avoid, but it completely backfired on him.

Newt let his head fall to the side, his chest jolting when Minho came into view. Visibly pissed. An underlying sadness.

He wasn’t looking at Newt, but it still petrified him.

He was covered in blood. A big splotch of it was all along his shoulder and chest. Another along his abdomen. It wasn’t Minho’s blood.

"Shuck-face," he muttered, and Newt’s chest jolted again. Minho’s voice had cracked and his fist had tightened.

He didn’t move for a while, and Newt had actually considered speaking. He didn’t. Turned his head instead. Shut his eyes. Avoided thought while thinking. And impossibly dozed off to a palm on his leg and lips to his forehead.


End file.
